Strangers
by Freya-Kendra
Summary: Set at some point in Season 1, a mishap in an abandoned warehouse leaves Jim vulnerable while an amnesiac Blair puts his trust in the wrong hands. Inspired by but diverges from the 2006 movie, "Unknown." *Ch 1 is Blair's POV. Upcoming is Jim's POV.


Author's Notes:

This fic was inspired by the 2006 movie, "Unknown," starring Greg Kinnear, James Caviezel, _et. al._ Synopsis for the movie, as posted to IMdb: "_Five men wake up in a locked-down warehouse with no memory of who they are. They are forced to figure out who is good and who is bad to stay alive_. "

It's a poor synopsis, but I found it to be a good movie. Is the guy who's tied up a bad guy or a good guy? Who's the victim? Who's the kidnapper? etc.

_Synopsis for this fic_: Set at some point in Season 1, a mishap in an abandoned warehouse leaves Jim vulnerable while an amnesiac Blair puts his trust in the wrong hands. (Okay, so it's not much clearer than the synopsis for the movie. So let me add this: _Is the guy who's tied up a bad guy or a good guy? Who's the victim? Who's the kidnapper? etc._ ;-)

**Strangers (**_**Who's Who?**_**)**

_by Freya-Kendra_

* * *

It started before he even opened his eyes, that sense of puzzlement, of confusion. Coming awake itself was a strange sensation. It felt as though he was floating back to the surface—as though he had been underwater. Yet the ground beneath him was hard, solid. And the air smelled of …. _What_? He couldn't pinpoint exactly what that smell was. It wasn't fish or salt water. It wasn't chlorine, although it did seem to be chemically based. Cleaning fluid? No. It was too … _bitter_ to be cleaning fluid. And it was mixed with other smells. Oil, perhaps. Dust, definitely.

He rolled sideways as he blinked the fog from his vision. He pressed his hand against grimy, oily concrete and started to push himself into a sitting position; but his head spun from the effort. He had to hold his position until the world fell back into place—a world which placed him in the center of an old, dingy warehouse.

"Who are you?" Someone called out.

He turned toward the voice, saw a gun pointed in his direction—and realized with sudden, striking terror that he had no idea how to answer the question.

_Oh, god_, he wondered silently. _Who am I_?

"What are you doing here?" The gun clicked.

"I don't … I don't know."

"What is this place?"

_What_? He was surprised to hear that question aimed in his direction, but before he could even try to clear any of his confusion he saw an iron rod smack hard against the stranger's face. The gun and the rod both dropped to the floor, the iron rod clattering with a loud and painful echo as the stranger went down in a heap.

Another stranger moved into his field of vision, a forty-something man with shaggy, salt-peppered hair, the stubble of a new beard and a cold, aimless stare. The man picked up the gun and cradled it in his palm as though testing its weight.

"Thanks; I think." There was something about this new stranger, something frightening, yet familiar.

The shaggy man looked his way, seeming unsure about whether to pocket the gun or use it. "Who are you?" He asked, repeating the first stranger's question.

"Damn," he sighed with disappointment. "I was hoping maybe you could tell me that."

Ignoring the new stranger, he began to rifle through his own pockets, hoping to find a wallet, a cell phone or anything else that might begin to help him put the missing pieces back into place. He started with his coat, a brownish, tattered thing with a patch on his left arm.

_The patch_…. A memory swam into view, the feel of something deadly skimming across the fabric just short of drawing blood. _An arrow_? Yeah, right. He scoffed at his own foolishness. _Then what am I; some time-traveling freak who shifts from cowboys and Indians to … to whatever this is_?

Finding the coat pockets empty, he shifted his attention to his jeans. All he found was one, small, folded piece of paper— a receipt of some kind with writing on the back. He studied the words, hoping to recognize the handwriting and trying to make sense of the carelessly scrawled letters: 1 mill unmarked park bench cape falls.

It was gibberish, meaningless. He turned the paper around and saw that it was a gas station receipt. The street name was Prospect. The city was Cascade, Washington.

None of it triggered even the glimpse of a memory. He crumpled up the paper, threw it away from him and started to push himself to his feet when the shaggy man grabbed his collar.

"I said what is this place?" The stranger demanded. "How did I get here?"

"I don't know!" He shouted back. "I don't … I don't even know what I'm doing here, man!"

The stranger threw him away with the same frustrated disgust he himself had shown the useless receipt. He landed hard about three feet from where he'd been on an even dirtier section of concrete. His hand skittered across oil as he braced his fall. _No, wait_. That wasn't oil.

"Blood," he said out loud.

"What?" The shaggy man shouted.

"It's … blood." He glanced around him, his gaze taking in empty, metal racks, some sort of gas-filled canisters that reminded him of a CO2 tank he'd encountered … _somewhere_ before … and … there. Dangling from the side of a stairwell above him was a dead man, dripping blood.

"Oh, god." He skittered backwards and then got to his feet.

"What the hell?" The shaggy man asked, following his gaze.

The dead man had one wrist handcuffed to the stairwell's metal railing; it was the only thing keeping him from hitting the ground about two meters below.

"What the hell is going on here?" The stranger shouted, cocking the gun and aiming it unsteadily in his direction. "What the hell did you do to me? Why can't I remember anything?"

"Come on. We're in the same boat here. I don't remember anything either."

"How's that possible? That's not possible. You did something. What did you do?"

"Just put that thing away; it's not going to solve anything. Whatever's going on, we are in this together. So let's just try to figure it out."

The gun wavered in the shaggy stranger's shaking hand.

"Look at me. Do I look like a threat?" He sure didn't feel like one. "Do I look like I could do anything to you at all, let alone steal your memories?"

It was kind of funny, come to think of it; and he found himself snickering at a crazy notion. "Like I did some sort of voodoo or something?" But after he spoke his smile faded as the tickle of another memory stopped just short of the surface. He imagined himself somewhere in a jungle. There was a campfire and a shaman. _A shaman_?

"Shit." The stranger slipped the barrel of the gun into his belt and ran his hand through his scraggly hair. "Shit." The stranger said again, starting to move toward the nearest doorway marked with an exit sign.

"Outside definitely sounds like a good idea." He started to follow his shaggy, gun-toting companion, but caught a glimpse of yet another stranger. This one was unconscious and tied to a metal chair, chin to his chest, his close-shaved head lolling from firm, well-toned shoulders.

This new stranger seemed even more dangerous and more familiar than the one who was now at the outer door. _Yes_. Actually, this one seemed particularly familiar.

He knelt down to get a better look at this stranger's face and a jumble of images came to mind. He suddenly knew why his pockets were empty. This man had patted him down, taken everything from him.

"You're a cop," he whispered. "And I am … _not_ a cop." The words sounded as though they had been spoken by someone else, someone different still. _You are not a cop_. "No, of course I'm not," he said aloud.

And then he remembered the cryptic message on the back of the gas station receipt. _1 mill unmarked park bench cape falls._ "So what am I? A kidnapper?" _Oh shit! Don't tell me I kidnapped a cop!_

_This is not good. This is so not good_. He shot back to his feet and tried to scramble away, anxious to find his shaggy companion outside; but he tripped over something—a gas tank like the ones in the metal racks. It rolled away from him, leaving a hollow echo behind.

_Gas_. He realized then. _We were gassed_. But how? Why? And more importantly, by whom?

* * *

It looked like they were in the middle of nowhere. The building was surrounded by trees and a road that seemed to just go deeper into the forest in both directions. Tall grass had grown through thick cracks in pavement that once had been a parking lot. He found the shaggy stranger trying to hot wire the only vehicle in sight, a rusted out Chevy pick-up truck.

"Looks like that thing hasn't gone anywhere in years," he said, approaching the driver's door.

"Yeah?" The stranger said from inside. "So how'd we get here?"

"That's a … good question." He looked up the road. "I'd have to guess someone left us here. I would also guess that someone's going to be coming back."

"So, what're you saying? We wait?" The stranger sat upright to face him.

"I really don't think that's such a good idea."

"Why not?"

"Because I think we kidnapped a cop, man."

"What?"

"There's a guy in there, tied to a chair. He's a cop. At least, I think he's a cop. Anyway, I'm getting these flashes, you know? And I think we're the expendable ones."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Whoever we're working with, they left us here without transportation. My guess is they went to pick up the ransom. They'd have no reason to come back. If they come back, it would be to tie up loose ends. And if they don't come back, the cops will. Either way, we're screwed, man."

"Ransom?"

"Does that sound familiar to you?"

"Maybe."

"So, do you think you can get that thing running?"

The stranger shook his head. "No way. It's dead."

"Then maybe we'd better start walking."

* * *

2

More images began to flash in his lost memories. The cop was patting him down and checking his pockets. The cop pulled out his wallet and held it in front of his face.

_Take nothing with you_, the cop had said.

It was a strange memory, a strange image. _Take nothing with you_. The comment made no sense. Take nothing with him where? To jail?

"Hey," he called after his shaggy companion who had already started toward the road. "Hold on. I just want to run inside for a minute."

"What for?"

"I, ah, I think I left something in there."

"You didn't leave anything. I saw you check your own pockets. You didn't have anything to leave."

"Just give me a minute, all right?"

The stranger pulled out the gun, aiming it in his direction. "I don't trust you."

"Calm down, man. Look, I just …. That cop in there. I just want to untie him. At least that'll give him a chance when they … whoever … gets here."

"Are you crazy? You kidnap him and then you want to just let him go because your memory's a little fuzzy?" The stranger laughed but did not lower the gun.

"That's right. Kidnapping is bad enough. I don't want to be responsible for murder, especially not for a cop's murder."

"You really are crazy, aren't you? What makes you think you're not already responsible for the dead guy in the handcuffs?"

Damn. He'd forgotten about that. How could he forget about that? Unless … unless he had not been responsible. "I don't think that was my fault."

"Yeah, well, I don't care what you think. You stay out here and start walking."

But that didn't feel right. He felt drawn to go back inside, to do whatever he could to increase the cop's odds—after all, there was still another guy in there, one who was going to wake up with a nasty headache and mean disposition given the way this shaggy guy had hit him with the iron rod.

He heard a click as the shaggy stranger turned off the safety on the gun and steadied his aim. "Start walking or die now," the stranger demanded. "It's your call."

Taking one last look toward the warehouse, another image floated through his foggy brain. _Take nothing with you_, the cop had said. _And remember, you're not a cop_. It was not a reprimand, but a reminder. Had the cop tried to protect him?

This was wrong. This was all wrong. He should be in there, with that cop, not out here with this stranger. But he'd had that cryptic note in his pocket so maybe being in _there_ was wrong, and being out _here_ was right. Besides that, the stranger had a gun aimed in his direction, and his options had been made very clear. _Start walking or die now_.

He started walking.

* * *

_Take nothing with you. And remember, you're not a cop_.

The words kept repeating in his brain as he walked down the darkening road. Why were those words so important to him? He had tried to reason things out along the way, chatting to himself since his companion refused to join the conversation. Now he was noticing that evening was falling fast. They could not have been walking for more than an hour, but neither had given any thought to the time of day when they'd left.

"Hey. It's going to be night soon. Don't you think we ought to stop and light a fire or something?"

"Shut up!" The stranger shouted back at him. "Why don't you just shut up for once? You've been babbling non-stop and I'm sick of hearing your voice."

"Fine. But it is going to be night soon. And this road isn't going to get us anywhere before that. And with all these trees, and all those clouds, it's going to be way too dark for us to see anything at all. I really think we ought to stop and light a fire."

"First you talk me into getting away from that warehouse because someone might be coming after us, and then you want to light a fire so whoever that someone is can find us more easily? How the hell did I ever let myself get stuck with you?"

"That does seem to be the sixty-four thousand dollar question, doesn't it?" He stopped and turned toward the woods. "Whatever you want to do, man, I don't care anymore. As for me, I am going to stop and set up some sort of camp … somewhere."

He was looking into the trees, hoping to catch a glimpse of a clearing when he felt something pressed against the back of his head. He heard the distinct click of the gun's safety. It stopped him cold.

"I ought to kill you right here, right now."

Why did that sound familiar?

_I ought to kill you right here, right now._

It wasn't just deja-vu. This stranger had said those very words before. They'd been in the warehouse. But someone had grabbed the stranger's hand, pushed it away from his head.

_That's not going to get you what you're after, is it?_

The voice was the same. _Take nothing with you, _that voice had said earlier._ And remember you're not a cop. _

_That's not going to get you what you're after, is it?_

It was the cop. The cop had saved his life. The cop he'd left tied to that chair had casually moved this stranger's hand away and talked him out of pulling the trigger.

Oh, man. This was wrong. This was all wrong. He had to get back to that warehouse.

* * *

3

It's amazing what goes through your head when there's a gun pointed at it. Here he was with the barrel of a gun literally pressing against the back of his head, and all he could think about was helping a strange cop he'd left tied to a chair in an old warehouse in the middle of nowhere. He felt no fear, had no thoughts of death. It was as though the moment was no more than an annoyance.

Almost without thought, he dropped to the ground, grabbed the nearest stick and slammed it against his shaggy companion's shin. It was enough to catch the stranger off guard. One more whack of the stick, this time to the head brought the man down.

He saw the gun land softly in a pile of pine needles and considered leaving it there—but only for a moment. He hated the thought of having a gun in his hand. Of course, the thought of leaving a loaded gun in the possession of this stranger was even less appealing. Without further hesitation, he grabbed it and started running back the way they'd come.

* * *

_Take nothing with you. And remember, you're not a cop. _

He heard the words again in his mind, yet this time he started to catch even more glimpses through the fog.

_This is undercover work, Chief_. The strange cop had said.

_Chief_? He remembered the feel of death breezing across the fabric of his sleeve, and then envisioning an arrow … next, came a campfire, and a shaman. It was surreal, impossible. And yet it felt real somehow.

_You don't want to have anything on you that could clue them in to who you really are. Take nothing with you. And remember, you're not a cop._

Had he been undercover? But how could that be if he wasn't a cop?

He heard the small explosion of a gun behind him and the pop of a bullet smacking a tree at his side. _Shit_! But he had the gun, so how could…?

Another explosion, this one was punctuated by the feel of something brushing past his sleeve.

A bullet had brushed his sleeve, not an arrow. He had been in a basket, suspended high above the ground at the windows of a tall building. Men with guns had caught him. But had caught him doing what? Trying to break into a building, pretending to be a window-washer?

The fog in his head was still thick, and he realized this latest jaunt down memory lane had caused him to become an even slower and easier target for the shaggy stranger chasing him. Unfortunately, the realization came too late to protect him from the bullet that skimmed along the side of his forehead.

_It's just a flesh wound_, he heard someone say as he dropped to the ground and scrambled behind a thick tree. Damn that hurts!

It was a movie—Monte Python and the Holy Grail. There was a knight who'd lost both arms and a leg, yet was still determined to guard the path.

Shit, you can remember that but you can't remember what happened today?

He was okay, he knew that. The bullet had just grazed his head. But it burned like hell and he could feel the slow drip of blood gliding along his temple, sliding across his cheek. Using the back of his shaking hand, he gingerly wiped the stream to prevent it from reaching his eye. There was nothing else he could do. Not yet.

The sun was nearly gone, and the forest almost black around him. Yet when he peered around the tree he could make out the figure of a man running toward him on the road. It was a careless move on the part of the shaggy stranger.

He knew it gave him a clear advantage. He reached into his coat pocket, pulled out the gun, and then, swallowing bile at what he was about to do, gave his attention back to the road. But the stranger was no longer in sight.

* * *

Several long minutes passed. His head throbbed, his temple burned and he kept having to wipe blood away from his eye. Worse, the forest was growing blacker with every second. Despite his missing pursuer, he was going to have to move.

His steps were cautious at first; but when he heard no rustling leaves, no sounds of pursuit—and more importantly, no gunshots, he gained enough confidence to start with a slow trot back down the road toward the warehouse.

* * *

_This is undercover work, Chief. The only reason you're going along is because they think you're Gary Wentroff_.

Gary Wentroff? The name meant nothing to him. Still, as the only name that had yet stirred in his memories, he held onto it, even repeated it softly aloud as he staggered ever forward, determined to reach the warehouse.

Gary Wentroff. It sounds rich. Gary Wentroff the third, kind of rich. Was Gary Wentroff the one being ransomed or the one paying the ransom? He remembered the slip of paper from his back pocket. Gary Wentroff was the one paying, had to be. That would explain the hurried scrawl.

He'd received a message—a phone call?

_One million in unmarked bills. The third park bench to the right of Cape Falls._

The voice had a robotic sound to it, like something from the old Battlestar Gallactica television series. He had been in a phone booth, and he'd had to grab a broken pen off the filthy floor to scribble the note onto the only piece of paper he could find, a gas receipt he'd tossed into his pocket. But he hadn't been undercover then. He'd just been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He must have gone into the phone booth just ahead of someone else, someone the kidnappers had expected. They had apparently been watching. He'd made his phone call to … someone. It had been quick. No sooner had he hung up then the phone rang.

"Hello?"

_One million in unmarked bills. The park bench at the overlook. Cape Falls._

And then 'click,' they ended the connection.

But if I'm supposed to be paying the ransom, and Shaggy back there was one of the bad guys, and the guy tied to the chair is a cop, then who's the victim? He sure hoped it wasn't the dead guy in the handcuffs.

* * *

4

As he neared the warehouse, he saw the lights were on. That either meant they had been timed to go on automatically, or someone inside had turned them on. Okay, that suggested two possibilities: the guy who'd been hit by the iron rod was awake and moving around; or the cop who'd been tied to the chair had gotten free.

Actually, there was a third possibility. Both the cop and the guy who'd been hit might now be working together. Of course, he had no idea as to whether or not that would be a good thing.

He approached the building with as much stealth as his body would allow him. Unfortunately, that wasn't much. He was hungry, exhausted and the pain in his head was making it hard enough to think, let alone try to focus any attention on how he was moving. Somehow the force or some stroke of fate was with him, because he managed to reach the nearest wall without raising any sort of stir from inside. He pressed himself against the bricks, taking a deep, calming breath.

In his mind he heard the sound of drums. Tribal drums. He could almost detect the smell of cleansing sage burning somewhere nearby. He could imagine a candle glowing, the gentle flame guiding him toward a deep state of meditation.

_What the hell_? He opened his eyes and tried to push the strange thoughts from his mind. He had to focus on the here and now. His memories would have to wait. The slow trickle of blood oozing from his forehead was a clear and constant reminder of that very simple reality. Giving into his memories could get him killed.

Leaning carefully forward, he targeted a reasonably clear spot on an otherwise filth-obscured window. He peered inside—his gaze landing instantly on the barrel of a gun. It surprised him enough to cause him to stumble, and he fell flat on his butt just as a bullet crashed through the glass.

"Don't shoot!" He shouted. "Don't … shoot, man." He found his voice wavering as he realized he'd finally run out of all his remaining physical reserves. "I'm not … I'm can't go anywhere, anyway." And then he let himself fall back.

Lying prone on the glass-strewn parking lot, he gazed at the black sky above, listening to the steady approach of one set of footsteps until a figure moved into view. A face looked down at him. It was the cop.

"Thank god it's you, man." He let his eyelids slip closed for a brief moment. "I didn't know if—"

When the sound of a click startled him, he opened his eyes to find the cop pointing a gun right between his eyes.

"No," he said softly. "You have to know this isn't right. Tell me you remember something, man. Tell me you remember _me_."

"What exactly should I remember about you?" The cop asked coldly, his aim no less secure.

_Damn. _He found himself laughing despite the lack of even the most remote possibility of humor. "I wish I knew. I really wish I knew. But I do know that we're supposed to be working together through all of this."

"All of what?"

"_This_, man. This—whatever it is that went wrong. We came here together. We were working together somehow. And then things got messed up."

"A man is dead. What can you tell me about that?"

"Nothing. Look, whatever else happened, all I know is some kind of gas was released in there. It knocked us all out and blocked our memories. But I've picked up a few of the pieces here and there, and one of those pieces is that you and I connected. We're on the same side here. You don't need that gun. Well, not for me, anyway."

Saying nothing in return, the cop stood perfectly still, studying him like a granite statue with eyes of fire. He could almost feel the cop's eyes digging deep into his soul. After a few moments, seeming satisfied, the cop lowered his weapon and his guard, and looked out into the trees.

"Who else is out there?"

He lifted himself part-way up, resting on one elbow as he wiped a trickle of blood from his eyebrow. "I don't know. Whoever he is, he tried to shoot me."

"I'd say he did more than try." The cop offered a hand and then hauled him effortlessly back to his feet.

"You believe me?"

"I believe what I can see. And I can see that the real threat is out there." The cop kept one eye on the trees until they were back inside the warehouse. When he closed the heavy, metal door behind them, he bolted it from the inside.

* * *

5

Despite the fact that the parking lot seemed little used, some measure of business continued to be performed here—or had continued until recently, with no attempt made to close loose ends. The warehouse itself was in a fair state of repair. The office remained stocked with files and clipboards, and even contained a fully-papered bulletin-board. The bathroom had its own story; it was obvious cleaning crews had spent about as much time in there recently as cars had spent in the parking lot outside. Fortunately, however, the first-aid station still contained supplies; and the cop seemed to know exactly how to use them.

He was perched on the edge of the desk in the office as the cop applied some sort of clear liquid to his head wound.

"Owe! Hey, watch it, man!"

But the cop ignored his discomfort. "This will hold you for now," the cop said casually before pulling open a patch of gauze and taping it over the gash. "But you're going to need a doctor to clean it out thoroughly if you want to avoid infection."

"What do you mean 'clean it out thoroughly'? It feels like you poured alcohol right into my brain. Owe. Damn. I'd swear you scoured my skin right off."

"Nope. The bullet did that. All I did was buff out the rough spots."

"Hah. Funny."

The cop apparently didn't think so. "Now tell me what you know."

"What, no lollipop?"

The cop didn't even twitch.

"Okay. What I know. It's not a lot, but…." He explained the flashes about the phone booth, the name of Gary Wentroff, and the cop's own quote that hadn't left his thoughts since he'd first remembered it. _Take nothing with you. And remember, you're not a cop. _

"You told me this was undercover work; and you took my wallet because it was important I have nothing on me that could clue them into who I really am."

"Do you have any clue about '_them'_?"

"No, man. Nothing. I don't even know who the kidnap victim was. For a while there I thought it was you."

"Why?"

"You were the only one tied up."

"Tied up?"

"Yeah. You were tied to a chair. I mean, you know you were tied to a chair, right?"

The cop said nothing.

"Come on. When you woke up, you were still tied to a chair, right?"

The cop gave a small shake of his head.

"So someone untied you."

"There's no one else here, Chief."

"What do you mean, no one else? What about the guy with the gun? The _first_ guy, I mean. The one the other guy hit with the pipe?" He jumped off the desk, eager to return to the spot where he'd left gun-guy number one. But his head swam from the sudden jolt. His balance faltering, he leaned back against the desk.

"You might have a concussion, Chief. I wouldn't recommend sleeping until you get it checked out."

"Sleeping? Like I'm going to sleep here, with all this?"

The cop shrugged.

"And why do you keep calling me 'Chief'?"

Another shrug. "Do you know your name?"

"No."

"Then 'Chief's' better than 'hey, you,' don't you think?"

He considered that for a moment. "Yeah. Okay. I get that. But there's something about that word, something about hearing you say it."

"What?"

"I don't know. It just makes me feel even more like we're connected somehow. Like 'Chief' is in some way a … I don't know, like a term of endearment of some kind."

"A term of endearment?"

He shrugged. "In a way."

"Look, _Chief_, I have to tell you that I don't swing that way. But whatever you do, you know, that's your prerogative."

He felt his eyes go wide in realization. "No, man. I don't swing that way either. I was just—"

"And you know that for a fact?"

"What?"

"You don't know your own name, but you know you're heterosexual."

"Yeah, man."

"How do you know that?"

"I don't know. I just … know."

"Like you know we're connected."

"Yeah."

"And not just connected, but on the same side."

"Yeah."

The cop considered that for a moment, and then nodded. "Okay."

"Okay?"

"Yeah. Okay. I believe you."

"Just like that, you believe me?"

"Let's just say I know it too."

He felt his entire body relax after hearing that statement. "That's great," he said, smiling. And it _was_ great. He started to feel like this was the first real step toward getting this whole puzzle solved. And that meant getting his life back. Whatever that life turned out to be, he knew he had at least one good 'connection.'

* * *

6

Back in the main part of the warehouse, he could see that things had changed since he'd made his hasty departure. Someone had gone to fairly great lengths to set things back into order. The fallen gas tank had been righted and moved aside. The chair the cop had been tied to was gone; come to think of it, he might have seen it in the office a moment ago. He started to turn his attention back toward the office when his gaze swept the metal stairs and he saw that they were empty.

"Where'd he go?" He asked.

"Where'd who go?" The cop responded beside him.

"Th … the dead guy. He was … His wrist had been handcuffed to the railing up there. He was just … hanging, right there." He hurried over to the spot where he'd first awakened, his eyes focused on the floor. "Right there. See? Blood. His was hanging right up there, and his blood was just … dripping." He had to stifle a shudder.

"You okay there, Chief. You look a little pale."

"I'm … fine. It's just, I mean, there was a _dead_ guy. And he was just … hanging there."

"Well, he wasn't hanging there when I woke up."

"He wasn't?"

The cop shook his head.

"But you did say you saw a dead guy. So where was he when you saw him?"

The cop led him to a spot nearer the outer door, where, obscured from view by a stack of boxes, a body had apparently been laid out on the floor and covered by a dusty, old tarp. The cop pulled away a section of the tarp, revealing the dead man hidden underneath.

"Is this who you saw?"

He nodded and then shook his head, growing increasingly confused. "But if you didn't move him, who did?"

"I'd say that's something we'd better get figured out. What else can you tell me?"

He considered the puzzle and tried to connect the dots between the pieces he'd found so far. "Did you ever find gun-guy number one?" He asked. "I mean, the guy who held the gun on me when I first woke up, the one the other guy hit with the iron rod?"

The cop shook his head. "It's just been me and this corpse."

"So gun-guy number one woke up, spent some time to tidy things – which included pulling down the dead guy and untying you – and then he disappeared. Man, I can understand untying you; and I can sort of understand pulling down the dead guy, but if his memories were blocked like ours were, then I can't help but wonder why he would prioritize that over trying to find answers. I mean, especially why he would bother straightening up? Was he just killing time, hoping you'd wake up? Or does he have some sort of deep-seated obsessive-compulsive thing going on? You know, I've heard about—" He stopped himself cold as a rush of images flooded his thoughts.

"Remember something else?" The cop asked.

"A psychology journal. I remember reading a psychology journal; but it's more than that. People. I remember studying people. And books. Lots of books." He smiled, suddenly excited. "It's another connection. I'm connected to a school somehow."

"That's great, Chief; but right now we both need to focus on what happened here."

"Right. Right. Okay, so gun-guy number one gets knocked out, then wakes up, and … and then what?"

But the cop seemed to have stopped paying attention. His focus was directed at the broken window. Without saying a word, he started moving toward it.

"What is it?" He asked; but the cop seemed to ignore him. "Do you hear something?"

The cop turned just long enough to hold a finger to his lips. _Shhh_. He slid against the wall beside the window, and with careful, sinuous motions almost reminiscent of a large cat—

—_a large, black jungle cat that peered out at him from somewhere deep within a verdant rainforest_….

He closed his eyes for just a moment, just long enough to chase the strange image away. When he opened them again he jumped, startled, unprepared for the cop's swift action as the cop grabbed hold of some piping around the upper edge of the window and swung both feet against the bullet-shattered glass. An instant later, the cop was gone from sight.

His thoughts barely had time to catch up with him when he found himself already running toward the window. Once there, he gazed outside to see the cop pinning another man against the brick wall. A gun lay on the ground at their feet.

"Oh, man. I don't believe I'm doing this," he said aloud to no one but himself before clearing away the last broken shards and climbing through the now empty window frame. And then he picked up the gun.

"Don't move. Just … don't move," he said with false – but hopefully believable bravado.

There was a noticeable pause in the ensuing struggle.

"Is this him?" The cop asked. "Is this your 'gun-guy number one?'"

Stunned and panting—and even more stunned to see the cop wasn't even winded—he shook his head. "No," he answered. "He's not even gun-guy number two."

* * *

7

Gun-guy number three could not have been more than twenty. Chief thought he glimpsed a mixture of lost innocence and naiveté in the kid's dark, frightened eyes. Expecting someone far more foreboding, this realization caught Chief off guard, and his already unsteady grip on the gun faltered. In the seconds it took Chief to recover, he would have expected the kid to renew his struggle with Cop. But the kid didn't do anything at all.

Shoulders sagging, any fight the kid had remaining vanished in an instant. He allowed Cop and Chief to lead him back inside, and all the way into the warehouse's office without complaint. Once there, he obediently settled into the same chair Cop had been tied to earlier. He even made it easy for them to secure his hands with package-sealing tape by directing them to a roll that had been conveniently left on top of the desk.

"Well?" The kid asked after several long moments locked under the silent scrutiny of the cop.

Chief's eyes danced back and forth between the two of them.

"Well what?" Cop replied.

"When are you going to start asking me questions?"

"What sort of questions should we ask you?"

The kid looked at Cop in disbelief. "Oh, I don't know," the kid answered in a sarcastic tone. "Like why was I spying on you?"

"I'll tell you what I'd really like to know," Cop said then, "is why you were targeting him." He pointed with his chin toward Chief.

"Me? What do you mean, 'targeting' me?" Chief asked.

"Before," Cop answered without moving his eyes from the kid, "when you were looking in at me through the window, this one here was out in the tree line, ready to start taking pot shots at you."

"You mean … that shot … when you shot the glass—that wasn't aimed at me?"

Cop shook his head. "Didn't I already tell you I knew the real threat was out there?"

"Well, yeah. You did, but I didn't realize you meant…. I mean…."

"So why were you?" Cop asked the kid.

"Because I didn't know what he was going to do."

"What he was going to do about what?"

"About you. Or … _to_ you."

"To me?" Cop seemed surprised. "You thought you were protecting me?"

The kid nodded. "None of this was ever supposed to happen. It wasn't supposed to be like this. No one should've got hurt. But Mick got killed. And … I couldn't let a cop get killed, too."

"What are you saying?" Chief asked.

"You're the kidnap victim," Cop deduced. "Aren't you?"

The kid nodded again.

"You planned your own kidnapping?" Chief could hardly believe what he was hearing.

"I needed the money," the kid said as tears began to fill his eyes. "And my uncle, Gary.… He's got money to spare, but he wouldn't help me. I had to do something. And this … it should have been a piece of cake; but then…." He shook his head.

"Someone you thought was with you," Cop said, intuiting the missing words, "turned against you."

The kid nodded. "Yes." But then he seemed to change his mind. "No." He shook his head. "I don't know. It just … fell apart. Billy recognized you. He knew you were a cop. He freaked; and everything just … fell apart."

"What happened?"

But Chief didn't need to hear the kid's explanation. He could see it in his mind. They were at the falls, making the ransom drop. He and Cop were alone. There'd been no time to arrange for back-up, especially since there was no way to conceal a second vehicle. The road to the falls was typically deserted this time of year. If more than one had driven up there, odds were the kidnappers would have disappeared and the victim would never be retrieved.

_I said no cops_! Someone shouted. Chief looked around, but saw no one. Then he followed Cop's steady, focused gaze deep into the shadows of the woods.

_You blew it, Cop_! The same voice shouted. A moment later, a man with a gun pointed directly at Cop stepped out from behind a thick, ancient tree. It was gun-guy number two, the one Chief had initially trusted, and who later might have killed him. If that bullet had been just an inch closer…. Chief pushed down a wave of nausea as he let the drone of the kid's words fade further into the background to focus on his own kaleidoscopic memories.

_Billy Walden, _Cop said, holding gun-guy number two in his cold, steady stare. _I told you last time we met that you'd be headed to prison if you didn't clean up your act_.

_Not me, man_, Billy replied. _You got it all wrong. The way I see it, you're gonna die, and I'll still be free as a bird_.

_No, Billy. _Another figure emerged from the woods. _Don't make things worse than they already are. We'll figure a way out of this_.

_There is only one way out_, _Paulie_, Billy said.

"They took you back here," the kid was saying when Chief's attention returned to the moment-at-hand and the pseudo-interrogation in the warehouse office. "I couldn't believe it. I mean, they should have just left, gotten out of there. They could have taken your car. By the time you got yourselves back to Cascade, we'd all be long gone. But they took you _here_. What did they think they were going to have to do when they got here?"

"You tell me," Cop said.

"Everyone started arguing. Billy wanted to kill you both. Jack wanted to go straight to my uncle and demand money. Paulie … he just … didn't want to go to prison. I…." He cried. "I didn't know what to do. I was afraid to leave you with Billy and Paulie; but I was even more afraid what Jack would do to my uncle Gary."

"Wait," Chief cut in. His head was spinning and the floor seemed to be moving. He sat back down on the edge of the desk and closed his eyes. "I'm trying to pull this all together, here." He opened his eyes again, and then held up one hand to start counting with his fingers. "There's Billy, Paulie and Jack. Which one of them is the dead guy?"

The kid shook his head. "That's Mick."

Chief's nausea intensified. "I hope you're able to keep track here, buddy," he said to Cop, "because I'm …." He could tell his speech was starting to slur. "I'm not doing so well." He felt the floor rising up toward him, a hand firmly gripping his arm … and then nothing at all.

* * *

8

A gun went off.

Someone shouted. _You'd better get your butt back here…. _He knew that voice. It was gun-guy number two, the man he had walked with, the one he had trusted—the one who shot him. _I'll kill your cop friend_.

Chief had gotten away from them. Their focus had been on the cop. They were tying him to the chair and arguing about what to do next. Chief had taken advantage of the moment. He had twisted out of … _someone's_ grip, and managed to make it to a spot by the stairs. He was now hiding behind a crate.

_Stay where you are, Sandburg_, the cop shouted then.

_Sandburg_. He knew that name. Was that his name?

There was another shot. This one came from somewhere above him. He looked up to the catwalk. He saw nothing except for an open door. And then someone rushed past him, someone else he recognized. It was the dead guy—only he wasn't dead yet. The dead guy ran up the stairs, across the catwalk, toward the open door. But someone inside that upper room rushed out. Chief caught a glimpse of blonde hair. The blonde newcomer struggled with the dead guy. Somehow the newcomer managed to handcuff the dead guy's wrist to the railing.

More shots were fired. The newcomer ducked. The dead guy rose at precisely the wrong instant. A bullet meant for the newcomer reached the dead guy instead. He dropped over the railing, but with his wrist fixed in place, he never made it to the ground.

_Get him, Paulie_! Gun-guy number two shouted. There was a crash, and then the hiss of gas being released into the air.

Seeing that the cop had been abandoned, Chief tried to take advantage of yet another unguarded moment. He started to move in the general direction of the cop, eager to untie him. Equally eager to ensure his plans would not be interrupted, Chief turned his gaze toward the commotion as soon as he was clear enough to get a good look. When he caught a glimpse of the blonde-haired newcomer, he finally managed to see the man's face.

"It was him," Chief said aloud. Coming awake, he opened his eyes to find himself on the floor of the office. He did not consider wondering why he was on the floor. His only thought was to share this latest memory with the cop he'd come to trust. Rushing to sit up, he found the world spinning around him and decided it was better to lie back down.

"Easy there, Chief," Cop's voice said from somewhere beside him. "We've got to—"

"I know who it was," Chief interrupted.

"Who?"

"The guy who killed the dead guy. I saw him. It was the same guy I saw when I first woke up in this place. It was the first gun-guy, the one gun-guy number two hit with that rod. Although that's not right either. He didn't kill him, but it was because of him the dead guy ended up dead."

"Slow down, Chief. You're not making any sense."

"Gun-guy number one. The first one I saw when I woke up here. He's the one who had the handcuffs, the one who handcuffed the dead guy to the railing. They were shooting at him, not at the dead guy. I think the dead guy was one of the bad guys, and gun-guy number one was trying to help us. Don't you see? They were after him and he was trying to help us. We have to figure out what happened to him. We have to find him."

"Okay, Chief, but—"

"Sandburg," Chief said.

"What?"

"That's my name. Sandburg." He smiled and said it again. "Sandburg. I know that name. It's my name."

"That's great, Chief, but—"

"Sandburg," he corrected.

"Okay, _Sandburg_," Cop repeated, "our focus right now has to be on getting you some medical attention. We'll find gun-guy number one and everyone else afterwards, okay?"

It sounded simple enough; but there seemed to be one small problem. Chief could tell that walking out of here was an option no longer open to him. He couldn't even sit up at the moment. "I don't think I can—"

"Phone line's been cut," Cop said, as though he didn't even hear Sandburg talking. "And the kid's cell phone can't get a signal. But there's a jeep out back. We can—"

"A jeep?" Sandburg was stunned. He'd never thought to check the back of the building. Why hadn't he checked the back of the building before deciding to take a long stroll to nowhere? "Out back?"

"I'm guessing that's where your gun-guy number one got in. There's a fire exit above the dock doors. He must've climbed up the fire escape. And you're right, by the way."

"About what?"

"About him being on our side. If the jeep's any indication, he's a ranger with the forestry service."

"Wait a minute. If you knew there was a jeep, why didn't you just drive out of here? Or use the radio to call for help?"

"Because I thought it would be better to try to figure out exactly what was going on and who was involved before I involved anyone else."

"Okay. Yeah. Makes sense. I guess."

"Now wait here," the cop said. "I'll get the jeep started and bring it around front. Don't worry about our little friend here," he indicated the kid. "He won't be going anywhere."

The kid raised his hands, still secured with the tape, and gave the cop a mock salute.

Sandburg closed his eyes, relieved, but opened them again when he heard someone moving around in the office. Looking up, he saw it was the cop.

"Sorry," the cop said. "It looks like we move on to Plan B."

"What's wrong?" Chief asked, confused. "Did you forget something?"

"The jeep's out. Tires were slashed. Radio's busted up. Someone doesn't want us to leave here."

"Hold on, you just left. How could you know all that already?"

The cop gave him a concerned gaze. "I've been gone for twenty minutes, Ch … Sandburg."

"Twenty minutes?" Sandburg closed his eyes to make sense of what the cop had said. But then, afraid he'd lose another twenty minutes, he blinked them wide open. Fortunately, it appeared as though the cop had not moved. "Damn," Sandburg said then. "I guess you're right about that medical attention."

The cop's concerned gaze grew darker. "I just wish I felt better about Plan B."

"Why? What's Plan B?"

"I'll have to hike out of here. I found a map in the glove box. It shows a small ranger station about five miles due east of the road. I doubt it will be manned this time of year; but it's bound to have a working radio."

"Don't do it," the kid said. His eyes, still red from crying, started to reflect something different, some emotion stronger than the guilty conscience he had earlier displayed.

"Why not?" The cop asked, seeming suspicious. "What haven't you told us?"

"If you leave us alone out here, like this, totally vulnerable, they'll kill us," the kid said.

Sandburg realized then what was in the kid's gaze. It was fear.

* * *

9

"They'll kill us," the kid repeated in a soft, terrified whisper.

"Who?" The cop asked.

"Billy and his brother," the kid went on. "They're both crazy. But Billy, he's…." The kid shook his head. "The only reason I did any of this was because of them. They conned me into selling drugs and then set me up to make it look like I stole from their supplier. The only way to make any of it right and to get them off my back was to get my uncle's money."

Sandburg was still having trouble wrapping his brain around the whole thing. "Wait a minute," he said. "There are just two things that are bothering me about all this. First of all, what makes you think they'll remember any of that, even if they're still in the general vicinity? And second, why is it you remember so much?"

This kid sneered, as though he thought Sandburg was an idiot. "First," he said, "you're remembering, so what makes you think they won't? And second, I wasn't here when the tank ruptured."

"You weren't?" Sandburg asked. "Where were you?"

"I took off with Jack before the shooting started."

"Then why are you back here now?"

"He ditched me a few miles up the road. He said it would be better if he confronted Gary on his own, without me. And he … he said he only took me with him to get me away from Billy and Paulie."

"There's a friend for you," Sandburg's tone was tinged with sarcasm. "He gets you away from the bad guys but leaves you to fend for yourself on a deserted road in the middle of a forest during the off season."

"Don't say that!" The kid yelled back. "Jack's a good friend. He would never hurt me. Never."

"But you were afraid he'd hurt your uncle."

"That's different. He hated that my uncle wouldn't help me. And sometimes he … he protects me too much."

"Okay," the cop broke in. He grabbed the kid's wallet from where he'd dropped it on the desk, and flipped it open to see the driver's license. "Jeremy, you need to give us the full story, here. We need to know everyone who was involved in this with you. There was Mick, and he's dead. There was Jack, and he's long gone. There was Billy and Paulie, who are out in the woods somewhere, dealing with their own memory issues. Who else?"

"That's it. There was no one else."

The cop glared at him. "Who was driving the other car?"

The kid paled. "What other car?"

"There were two vehicles in that parking lot within the last twenty four hours. Now, who was driving that other car?"

Looking visibly ill, the kid closed his eyes. "Billy's supplier," he said after a moment. "But he's bad, dude. You don't want to mess with him."

"I don't want him to mess with us. When's he coming back?"

The kid—_Jeremy_ shook his head. "I don't know. I don't know if he will. I guess it depends on what happens with Jack and Uncle Gary."

"Yeah," the cop said, keeping his eyes locked on Jeremy's. "That's what I thought. Look, we're out of options here. I'll have to take that hike. And I'll have to do it fast. Odds are you won't have to worry about the supplier for at least a couple of hours yet. As to Billy Walden and his brother …."

Sandburg would not have thought it possible, but the cop's glare intensified.

"I'm going to have no choice," the cop went on, "but to trust you to look out for both yourself and him," he pointed to Sandburg without turning his gaze. "I'll set you loose so you can defend yourself. But you listen to me now, and you listen good and hard. If you do the right thing here, I will watch your back when this whole thing gets to court. The right thing means nothing happens to Sandburg, and if you come across that missing ranger, you look out for him as well. But if it goes down any other way, if anything else happens to Sandburg, then you'll see that however much you already fear Billy and Paulie and this mysterious supplier, whatever any of them might do to you would be nothing compared to what I'll do."

Jeremy shrank back in his chair as though pushed by the force of the cop's steady, deadly glare.

"You got that?" The cop demanded an answer.

Jeremy nodded emphatically. "Yeah. I got it. I got it."

The cop held his glare a moment longer before drawing away. He pulled a box cutter from the desk drawer and cut Jeremy free. Even then, the kid didn't move.

As the cop started toward the door, he turned back. "The right thing," he said, pointing sharply at Jeremy.

"Yeah, man. The right thing. I swear." Jeremy's voice shook. "But wait, uh, how can you see enough to take that hike now? I mean, it's pitch black out there. What if you get lost?"

"Don't you worry about me," the cop said while moving away. "You just worry about Sandburg."

"Yeah," Jeremy whispered uncertainly. "I'll worry, alright."

* * *

10

When Sandburg opened his eyes again the office was deserted.

"Jeremy?" He called out.

There was no reply, no indication of any kind that the self-kidnapped kid was still around.

"That's just great," he said to himself. "You passed out again, didn't you?"

He wondered how much time had lapsed since the cop had left to find the ranger station, but looking at a clock would be pointless since Sandburg hadn't bothered to check the time then either. It occurred to him that lying down might not have been such a good idea after all. Sure, it helped keep his head from spinning; but it also seemed to encourage his body to sabotage his efforts at staying awake. He decided it was time for his own Plan B. He had to get up and start moving around.

Okay, getting up – that was going to take some effort in and of itself. Moving slowly to avoid inviting dizziness and nausea, he lifted himself to his elbows. A few moments later he successfully managed to sit upright.

"This isn't so bad," he said aloud, hoping to convince himself despite the fact that the ground was rolling beneath him and he was pretty sure the warehouse office had not been hauled out of the forest and launched onto the sea.

He remembered hearing someone say "I don't have my sea-legs yet." He wished he had his sea-legs; then it might not have been such a struggle to get to his feet. Still, somehow he managed it. He even managed to take several shaky steps toward the door before his vision started to blur.

"Not now," he complained through clenched teeth.

He waited a moment, concentrating on nothing but breathing. Finally, _fortunately_ his vision started to clear. He took one more, long, calming breath, and then stepped out into the main room of the warehouse.

It was quiet—eerily quiet. He wanted to call out Jeremy's name but could not quite bring himself to disturb that sense of solitude exuded by the silence. He started to feel as though he was in a horror movie, one in which some evil being separates the group of unsuspecting strangers and then starts to pick them off, one by one.

"Yeah," he whispered into the emptiness. "But which one am I?"

A noise drew his attention upward. It could have been nothing more than the building settling, as he'd heard other odd noises in the night explained away. Who had said that to him? It was a woman's voice. His mother?

He moved toward the stairs as his thoughts strayed to a childhood that seemed not quite his own, and then he noticed the noise evolved into a periodic hum. When he drew closer still, the noise became voices.

"Just tell us where the money is, and none of this will matter anymore."

"I told you, already." _Was that Jeremy's voice?_ "There isn't any money."

"I remember it!" _Billy_. Sandburg was sure that was Billy's voice—gun-guy number two. "Don't you tell me there's no money. I remember. A million dollars. That's how much there's supposed to be. I remember one million dollars. Now you give it to us, and then I don't care what you do. But for every minute that you don't, you're gonna wish you did."

"There is no money!"

A deep, agonized scream shook Sandburg nearly to his knees. Fortunately, he managed to stay on his feet, but it was no simple task. He had to do something. He didn't know what, but he had to do _something_.

"Think, Sandburg. Think!" But with his brain already so scrambled, all he could think to do was call on Jim—and he wasn't even sure who Jim was.

"Jim." He tested the name by saying it aloud. "Jim." It was familiar, comfortable. "Jim," he said a third time as the face of the cop started to swim across his thoughts. Was that Jim? Somehow it felt right. He smiled, despite the situation—as though Jim could make everything all right, as though he would barge through the door at any moment, guns blazing. No, that was in a movie somewhere. Jim wouldn't barge. He'd be subtle, like a cat—like a large, black jungle cat—

A hand was pressed across Sandburg's mouth, snapping him instantly back to the moment.

_Jim_? He prayed silently. But he knew it wasn't Jim. The hand felt wrong, the body behind him was wrong. No, this was definitely not Jim.

Shaking and on the verge of total collapse, Sandburg held his breath as the body behind him eased forward and a face moved into his field of vision. It was a blonde man with a bloodied, obviously broken nose. The man held a finger to his lips. _Shhh_. And then he pulled his hand slowly away.

"Leave this to me," the man whispered. "You're in no shape."

"You're the ranger." As soon as the words left Sandburg's mouth, he smiled, imagining himself repeating a corny line from the old Lone Ranger television series.

"Make that the lone ranger," the blonde man said, seeming to read his thoughts. "But don't worry, I got it covered." He took hold of a rifle from a strap over his shoulder and smiled back at Sandburg. "Never leave the station without enough firepower to bring down a grizzly; and never leave that firepower where a stray kid or poacher could get a hold of it."

Sandburg watched in amazement as the ranger silently climbed the stairs; and, despite the continued screams from the upper room and his realization that there was at least one and most likely two murderous thugs up there with Jeremy and only one man with one weapon hoping to disarm them both—despite all that, somehow the only thing Sandburg could find himself focusing on was how that man had shown an uncanny ability to read Sandburg's mind. His thoughts replayed a song from an old Mighty Mouse cartoon, "Here I come to save the day." And then he hit the ground; but he didn't feel a thing.

* * *

11

He heard gunshots. He hoped the ranger was okay. The man needed back-up, but Sandburg couldn't seem to bring himself to get up, let alone provide back-up. Fortunately, the ranger had appeared both capable and confident; and if Billy and Paulie were the men he was going against, the ranger should be fine all on his own. After all, the brothers had both seemed like screw-ups, so a lone ranger might very well be enough to bring them down. He _was_ a lone ranger; but Sandburg was pretty sure Ranger Rick up there was not _the_ lone ranger. Ranger Rick. Sandburg remembered that name, too. But if he remembered correctly, Ranger Rick was a raccoon, not a man. And it didn't seem right that a raccoon should carry a gun.

He was envisioning a cartoon raccoon with a gun in a stand-off with Billy and Paulie when he realized he couldn't hear shooting anymore. There was another kind of sound then. Steps? Footsteps on metal stairs? Someone was running. He heard the sound draw closer and then move away again.

_Wait_! He wasn't sure if he said anything or not. He wanted to see who it was. _Rick_? But that couldn't really be the ranger's name, could it? No. He was pretty sure he never knew the ranger's name.

_Chief's' better than 'hey, you,' don't you think_? Jim had said that, hadn't he?

_Jim_. Sandburg remembered Jim. What Jim said tended to make good sense. So maybe it was okay for Sandburg to think of the ranger as Rick even if it wasn't the man's name.

Somewhere within his line of reasoning he realized the sound of footsteps went away—or he went away; it was hard to tell which. After a while, he heard the sound of an engine and the banging of doors—or was that banging the sound of more guns? Or was it guns and doors?

Guns and doors. That sounded familiar.

He started to think about music. He liked music. He remembered something about a connection between an ancient war chant and the Seattle music scene. And then he heard more guns and doors. Was that the name of a band, Guns and Doors? No. Guns and Roses. Yeah, that sounded right.

But the sound of more shooting did not sound right. Then there were shouts; amongst them he found a voice he recognized.

"Sandburg! Where is he?"

Jim. That was Jim, he was sure of it. He should answer. He knew he should answer_. I'm right here, man_. But for some reason he just couldn't figure out how.

"Sandburg." Jim touched his arm. He was sure that was Jim's grip. He recognized the feel of that hand on his arm. It was comfortable, comforting. "Sandburg? Talk to me, Blair."

Blair? That was his name, wasn't it? Blair Sandburg. _Jim! You remembered, man! When did you remember? What else do you remember?_

But when Jim didn't reply Sandburg realized he'd never really spoken. He realized also that the ground was shaking. There was a loud, rhythmic _thump-thump-thump_ sound burrowing its way into his skin. Somehow he didn't quite think it was tribal drums.

He forced himself to concentrate on opening his eyes. A long while later, he blinked into a bright, white light.

"Ah!" He felt the vocalization deep in his throat as he scrunched his eyes closed to stave off the piercing pain caused by the light.

"Detective." A strange voice called out beside him. "He's coming around."

"Hey, partner."

Jim's voice and the feel of Jim's hand on his arm soothed the pain in Sandburg's head. He cautiously opened his eyes again, grateful to find the bright light was gone.

"Jim," Sandburg managed to mutter. "I remember."

"That's good, Blair. So do I."

Blair Sandburg forced his eyes wider and tried to fight against the veil of exhaustion that was shuttering his thoughts. "How?" He struggled to ask. "I mean, that gas. It didn't … didn't overload…?" He closed his eyes, searching for the rest of the words when a new question intruded.

"Rick?" Sandburg looked up and noticed concern in his friend's eyes.

"Who's Rick?" Jim asked.

"The ranger." Sandburg was confused. If Jim said he remembered, why didn't he remember Ranger Rick?

"You mean John," Jim answered, seeming relieved. He nodded once. "Ranger John is fine, except for a broken nose thanks to your gun-guy number two and his lead pipe."

"John?" Sandburg felt the sound of the name was off, wrong; but before he could figure out exactly why, another new thought took over. "A lead pipe, huh?" He found himself smiling. "I don't suppose you found it in the library with Colonel Mustard?"

"Nah. Try the kitchen with Miss Scarlet," Jim quipped back.

"Okay," Sandburg answered.

"Okay, what?" Jim asked.

"I'll try any room with Miss Scarlet."

Jim shook his head. "Get him out of here," he called out to the medics. But before they carried Sandburg away, Jim grabbed his arm gently one more time. "It's good to have you back, partner."

* * *

12

This was different. Blair Sandburg felt good, rested. More importantly, his mind seemed clear.

He opened his eyes to find Jim dozing in a chair at his bedside. _At his bedside?_ He had lost time again; apparently, he had lost a lot of time this time around, enough to leave him feeling comfortably rested in a hospital bed.

Realizing the whole mess in the warehouse was truly over, he felt a quick and almost inexplicable pang of disappointment. How did it end? It was as though he had been reading a good book and someone had torn out the last page.

"Jim?" He called out softly, unsure about waking a man who should have been equally as tired as Blair. Okay, maybe not _equally_. Jim hadn't also experienced a grazing bullet wound to the head and the requisite subsequent loss of blood. That consideration drew Blair's thoughts inward as he gingerly touched a hand to the bandage at his forehead.

"Don't worry," Jim said.

"What?" Drawn away from his introspection, he gazed back at his friend and saw the smallest quirk of a smile.

"They didn't shave your head," Jim explained.

Blair smiled back before Jim added, "Much."

"What?" Blair repeated with an urgency he had not felt a moment earlier as he cautiously ran his fingers over his hairline. "No! They didn't! They couldn't!" Fortunately, nothing seemed to feel different. He breathed a noticeable sigh of relief and then settled back against his pillow. "Funny," he shot back with a significant degree of sarcasm.

"So how's the head?"

"Not bad, actually, considering." He gazed meaningfully back at Jim. "How's yours?"

Jim raised his eyebrows, as though surprised by the question. "I didn't get mine in the way of a speeding bullet."

Blair remained serious. "I mean the memories … and, more importantly, your senses. That gas messed us up. With your sensitivities, that could have a serious, prolonged effect on you."

Jim shrugged and nodded. "Maybe if we hadn't met, it would have."

"What do you mean?"

"You've taught me not only about controlling my senses, but also about what happens when I zone out."

"I don't understand. How did that help you in the warehouse?"

"As soon as I knew I was going to be exposed to an unknown gas, I figured I should try to tune out my sense of smell as much as possible. I also figured the best way to do that would be to focus heavily on one other sense."

"You're saying you knowingly induced a zone out?" Blair's eyes went wide. "How? What sense did you focus on? How did you snap out of it? Jim, this has huge implications. We need to—"

Jim held up one hand. "One thing at a time, Einstein. And the first thing is _we_ don't do anything until you're back on your feet."

Blair smiled. "Then what are we waiting for?" He threw back the covers and sat up straight in one fluid, quick motion—a motion that proved to be too quick when the world spun around him and he found himself fighting back a wave of nausea.

"Easy there, Chief." Jim was on his feet in an instant. He gently took hold of Blair's shoulders and guided him back down to the pillow.

It took a while for the nausea to subside. When it did, Blair uttered a soft, "Okay;" and then, his eyes slipping closed, "Maybe just a few more hours rest."

"Yeah," Jim answered. "Maybe just a few more hours."

But after a long quiet moment, Blair opened his eyes again. "Hey, Jim?"

"Yeah, Chief?"

"So what sense did you focus on, when you zoned-out in the warehouse?"

"My hearing."

"Yeah? What particular sound drew your attention?"

"Your heartbeat."

Both startled and pleased by Jim's answer, Blair could not figure out exactly how he should reply. In his thoughts he tested the question, 'how did you know it was mine?' Yet he realized there was no point in asking it, because he already knew the answer. Jim could recognize Blair's heartbeat for the same reason Blair knew the difference between Jim's touch in the warehouse and that of Ranger John. This particular Sentinel and Guide were connected in ways that transcended the realm of physical science. Now, as he considered the events in the warehouse, Blair started to see that connection as far more than he could ever have imagined. In fact, it wasn't just a connection, it was a lifeline.

As Blair faded off into a deep, restful sleep, he could not have seen that his smile was mirrored by his partner; still somehow, on levels no science could yet explain, he knew it was there.

* * *

13

After a thankfully brief stay in the hospital, Blair was more than ready to return to the loft, but not without a side trip to the station to give his statement regarding the bizarre and still somewhat foggy events in and around the warehouse. Jim and Simon Banks both suggested they complete this task in the privacy of the captain's office; but from the moment they stepped into the bullpen up in Major Crimes, Blair recognized a keen interest in the expressions of Jim's colleagues. He had no problem with an audience; why not just do it at Jim's desk?

He described what he had finally remembered about the failed ransom drop. When Billy Walden recognized Jim, the odd collection of characters that had tried and failed to stage a phony kidnapping lost any hope of control. Without either a clear leader or a clear strategy, they argued over what to do next, and ultimately decided to take both Jim and Blair to the warehouse—which, Jim explained, turned out to fall under the ownership of Gary Wentroff.

Blair nodded, intrigued by that fact. "Okay. That makes sense. It fills in another piece of the puzzle."

"Go on, Sandburg," Captain Banks prodded. "But try to do it without the anthropological insights about leadership, okay. Stick to the facts."

"That's exactly what I'm doing, Captain. It is a fact that they had no clear leadership. You can't leave—"

"Yes, Sandburg, you can," the captain insisted. "They took you to the warehouse, and then what?"

"When we got to the warehouse, there was another car already there. An SUV of some kind; Chevy, I think. There were two men. One was tall with black hair, slicked back and a black leather jacket. He seemed to be in charge; and he was clearly not happy they brought us to the warehouse."

"Moe Fornelli," Taggart offered. "We caught up with him yesterday; one of the biggest drug busts in the history of this department."

"Go on, Sandburg," Banks prodded.

"Okay, so they brought us inside, and Fornelli and his driver took off. Then Jeremy, the kid who was supposed to have been kidnapped, started arguing with his friend, Jack; and then they took off. That left us with the brothers Grimm—"

"Billy and Paulie Walden," Jim offered.

"Yeah," Blair agreed. "And another guy named Mick. Anyway, Paulie started to tie Jim up while Billy held a gun on me to make sure Jim didn't struggle. I didn't think anyone else was there, but then I heard a gunshot from somewhere behind me. Billy and Paulie were both caught off guard, so I managed to get away. Mick ran up toward where the shots were fired …, and that's when it all just got insane. As it turned out, a ranger with the forestry service was upstairs in a storage room. He tried to help us out, but…." Blair shook his head. "Wow. Everything just happened so fast."

"Take your time, Sandburg," Simon Banks offered, considerably less perturbed than before; in fact, he seemed downright compassionate.

Blair smiled at the captain in appreciation and then continued his story. "Okay. The ranger came out of the room, struggled with Mick and somehow, I don't know—he was just so fast that somehow he managed to disarm Mick and cuff him to the railing. And then he dodged a shot fired by one of the brothers, and the bullet hit Mick instead. The ranger ran down the stairs, and then I lost sight of him. I could hear sounds of a struggle. There was a crash, and then the hiss of gas. I started to go toward Jim, and then…." He shook his head. "Nothing. I passed out. Next thing I knew gun-guy number one was holding a gun on me. Gun-guy number two knocked him out, and…."

Blair explained the rest of the story based on his perceptions at the time before filling in the real names for each of the people he encountered. When he was finished, Henri Brown scratched his head.

"So, gun-guy number one was Ranger John," Henri said.

Blair nodded. "That's right."

"And gun-guy number two was Billy Walden," H went on.

"Yeah."

"And dead-guy was Mick."

"That's right."

"So there's just one thing that confuses me."

"What's that?"

"Who's on first?"

"What?" Blair asked.

"No," Jim said. "What's on second."

Now Blair was confused. "I don't know—"

"Third base!" Henri said before high-fiving Jim.

Finally it sank in: Henri and Jim had been mimicking the classic Abbott and Costello skit. Blair shook his head, laughing softly. "Funny. Very funny."

And it was, now that he was able to think about everything from a healthy and safe perspective. The bad guys were caught. The good guys, including Ranger John, Jim and Blair himself, had survived with minimal damage. And the one in between, the kid who was conned into kidnapping himself, had displayed a good heart and even a dose of heroism by keeping Blair's existence hidden when the Walden brothers had finally made their move. Yeah, everything had turned out okay.

Jim wrapped his arm around Blair's shoulder to guide him toward the door, with the rest of Major Crimes following along.

"You had a name for everyone, didn't you?" Taggart asked.

Blair shrugged. "I had to keep them straight somehow."

"I like Ranger Rick, myself," Rafe chimed in.

"Hey, partner," Henri chided, "whatever you do on your time is none of our business." He slapped Rafe affectionately on the back before continuing. "Personally, I'm all for Kidnapped-Kid. Sounds like competition for Sundance, in a Mel Brooks sort of way."

"But Cop?" Taggart added. "You mean you couldn't come up with something more interesting for Jim than just, plain, 'Cop'?"

"I didn't know anything more interesting about him at the time," Blair admitted. He gazed at Jim, smiling. "But Cop sure beat 'Hey-You.'"

"Say goodnight, Gracie," Jim said as he punched the button for the elevator.

"Goodnight, Gracie," Blair responded. Yep. Everything had definitely turned out okay.

end


End file.
